ese sorts of melancholy, arising from
_palpable avowed_ causes, having their origin in the heart, might
equally find their cure in the heart. Already did imagination transport
him toward his beloved Ida, and he consoled himself by saying, that if
love has wings, friendship ought to have none. If this were an illusion,
he completed it by writing that charming poem of his youth, "Friendship
is Love without Wings."[163]

At Cambridge he met again one of his dearest friends from Harrow, Edward
Long; he also made acquaintance with the amiable Eddlestone, and his
melancholy disappeared in the genial atmosphere of friendship. As long
as these dear friends remained near him he was happy, even at Cambridge.
But they were called to different careers, and destiny separated them.
Long, with whom he had passed such happy days,[164] left the first to go
into the guards. Eddlestone remained, but Lord Byron himself was already
about to quit Cambridge. During the vacation, we see him modestly
preparing his first poems intended as an offering to Friendship; then
going to a watering-place with some respectable friends; devoting
himself with ardor to dramatic representations at the amateur theatre at
Southwell, where he was more than ever the life of society; and thus he
remained a whole year away from Cambridge, often seeing his dear Long
again in London, and visiting Harrow with him. When he returned, in
1807, to Cambridge, Long had already left, and Eddlestone was shortly to
go; thus, he no longer heard the song of that amiable youth, nor the
flute of his dear Long, and melancholy well-nigh seized hold on him.
Nevertheless, he consoled himself with projects for the future. Besides,
he was already nineteen years of age, had made some progress in the
journey of life, probably leaving some illusions behind him on the
bushes that lined the roadside, and perhaps his soul had already lost
somewhat of its early purity. He had certainly seen that many things in
the moral world were far removed from the ideal forms with which he had
invested them; that love, even friendship, virtue, patriotism,
generosity, and goodness, by no means attained the height of his first
convictions. A year before, he had said: "I have tasted the joy and the
bitterness of love." Willingly again would he have given way to the
emotions of the heart; but he too soon perceived that to do so were a
useless, dangerous luxury,--a language scarcely understood in the world
in w